A/N:

1) Well, this is my venture into fanfiction after over a year of not writing anything. This is a 3 chapter fic. Everything is plotted out, and I have already begun writing chapter two. I intend to post it this coming Sunday (1/23) EST.

2) This will be gone over again, but I know it's riddled with mistakes so please let me know what there is here.

3)My Arthur is a wreck. A fucking wreck. No matter the fic or the universe he is an absolute wreck. Please forgive us both.

4) Playlist for writing the chapter included Blackheart by Two Steps From Hell, Star Sky by Two Steps from Hell, Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons, Broken Crown by Mumford and Sons, Don't Trust Me by 30H!3, Hopeless Wanderer by Mumford and Sons

TW: drunk sex, addiction, general slurs, slight violence, hints at "incest" (in quotes because I don't see it like that, and I don't see any of the countries being related by blood)

You were never much for the arts, but all the same, you think it rather like a dance. A dangerous dance of whirling blades, raging fists and stray bullets.

You'd never say so to anyone else, but you think them both beautiful in their own way.

Suddenly the boat tips a bit too far; your crew and much of the invading crew are thrown over to port side. Not so with the captains: Arthur jumps from the fighting top on the foremast, catching hold of a piece of rigging down to the mizzenmast. The French pirate meets him, step for step, on the crow's nest, for a moment gaining the advantage of height.

You are interrupted from watching momentarily by an aggressor to your right. You slice him down without thought. It is not for lack of skill that you are distracted by the captains: as the quartermaster, you can afford a little distraction, you think.

The frog suddenly lands hard on his back toward the aft of the spar deck. People of both crews scatter like rats found amongst cargo, but you lean in for a closer look. Not too close, though; you wouldn't wish to be caught in the crossfire.

A shiver runs through you when you see the look the frog's eyes. Not for the first time, you think that he cannot be human. The same goes for your own illustrious captain, who lands as delicately as a cat on the rails of the quarterdeck. His eyes burn like Saint Elmo's Fire as he stares his opponent down, a vicious grin appearing on his visage in a harsh, toothy gash.

Everyone believes he aims to kill. Those who have been around for a while (but not quite as long as you) know that these two are arch enemies, and have been performing such dances for longer than anyone knows. But you—you think you know better. You have been with your captain for many turns of the tide, longer than anyone on your crew. And you are starting to think that maybe, just maybe, those near misses of the dagger are purposeful. Those bullets erring by a hair's breadth might not be missing their target at all, if their aim is true.

You think that perhaps these two inhuman beings, these men who are godlike in their speed, strength and their ferocity, would be nothing without each other. You suspect that this dance they do means much more to either of them than they would ever dare tell.

It wasn't often that so many of them could gather recreationally like this. Arthur had been told that Alisdair and Grainne wanted to come, but couldn't make it. Francis had kept assuring him over and over, at least in the beginning, that they would be there soon. The Brit didn't understand why he bothered with the pretense. If they weren't coming, they weren't coming; they rarely travelled with Arthur to conferences anyway.

Besides, he knew where he stood with his so-called family. He didn't understand why they kept insisting on calling each other family, either. There was nothing really tying them together, certainly not blood. Arthur had angrily sucked on his lip piercing and glared at Francis every time he brought it up. It was easier to deal with being the hated, odd black sheep out when people didn't point it out.

They'd just had a meeting in Brussels, and decided to go drinking at a popular pub by Laura's recommendation. Arthur had noticed with little to no sentiment that Laura had not spoken directly to him for the duration of the meeting of Nations.

… Probably still a bit irritated about that whole Brexit thing. Well, she'd get over it. She certainly found her voice when he got her into bed last month. The memory gave him satisfaction—the thought of her deliciously rounded, soft body squirming under his, so sensitive and so perfectly responsive to his touches and his tongue. He licked his lips, unconsciously poking at his lip ring a bit more. His dress pants were beginning to get slightly uncomfortable, but even though he was sitting next to Alfred he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

The next round of drinks was on Gilbert, and for the life of him, Arthur couldn't figure out where all of that man's money came from. He was, technically speaking, a "retired" Nation (it wasn't publicized exactly, but he couldn't bear to think of the Prussian how others sometimes did: on the decline, not a Nation, a ghost of the past) but the fact was, it kept coming. Many secretly thought that perhaps Ludwig gave him an allowance of sorts. Arthur disagreed. Gilbert had far too much money for a simple allowance, even if the amount given was generous.

Regardless of where it came from, Arthur had never been one to reject more alcohol and gleefully (read: purposefully) ignored Francis's disapproving glare. He'd only become so interested in Arthur's drinking habits after he dumped the man.

Alfred laughed heartily at something the Brit didn't catch – laughed right in his ear, in fact. He didn't even wince, too used to the obnoxious American to get annoying with just that. He sighed wearily nonetheless and brought a hand up, fingers playing in one of his gauges as though that could assuage the ringing in his ears.

"Dude that's so gross! Don't touch it!" Alfred swatted his hand away, and Arthur turned to glower at him slowly, his expression one of extreme disdain and the flickering embers of anger. He looked at Alfred's hand, then back at the boy.

"Fuck. Off."

"Oh, leave the boy alone." Francis tossed a pretzel bite at Arthur. The Brit growled, and suddenly he was being held down by arms of steel.

"Stop it, Artie." Alfred admonished. Matthew could be just barely overheard through the din of the pub, chiding his papa about throwing food.

Ludwig, to everyone's surprise, gave a big belly laugh, his cheeks flushing lightly and his hair perfectly mussed, making him appear much too sexed up for Arthur's eyes. He licked his lips, only realizing he was staring when the German's smooth, deep voice hit him like a ton of bricks.

"This is why we can't have nice things!" The German exclaimed, for once smiling warmly at his colleagues. Such a disarming thing. Such an innocent thing. Arthur wanted to break him.

He'd had the chance to break him… Why hadn't he just fucked him when they were occupying Berlin? He couldn't remember. He absolutely could not come up with any good reason why he had not fucked this man yet.

Suddenly movement to the side of Ludwig brought Arthur's attention away from the blond. He realized then that he'd nearly gone blind to all else… and someone had noticed. Gilbert was running gentle fingers through his brother's hair and glaring murderously at Arthur.

"I think it's about time that we head out."

"But," Ludwig glanced over, surprised. "I'm not that drunk, you know that!" It was so strange to see him like this, from stern and authoritative to almost childish.

The albino rubbed his back soothingly. "I know, and I never said you were. We're leaving anyway. Do you understand?" His tone was gentle, but brooked no argument. "I realize you don't like it, and I'm sorry. But you know I have my reasons. I'll make it up to you, okay?"

Arthur watched quietly as they left, and noticed Francis doing the same. He had suspicions about the sort of relationship they had. But it might be better to leave those unspoken, out of respect for Gilbert if nothing else.

"I'm surprised that Arthur has lasted as long as he has." Francis wheedled, leaning in close over the table. "I remember when our little black sheep would pass out from one flagon of strong mead."

Matthew audibly slammed his head on the table and Alfred groaned much too loudly. Arthur's ears were ringing again.

"You guys are so old!"

"You piece of shit, that was my first time drinking mead!" Arthur flung back, his words hardly slurring as much as he thought they should by now.

"And you were the cutest little thing, weren't you?" The Frenchman jeered. "Such a sweet boy. What the hell happened?" It was a joke, but it slammed into Arthur like a fist. It was the guilt, the weight of unnumbered sins suddenly sitting like lead in his chest that suddenly made this all too real. It didn't feel like it was just banter, anymore.

He stood abruptly, ignoring the looks of confusion on his companions' faces, and staggered to the door, already pulling out one of his favored clove cigarettes. Shit. He'd forgotten his coat in the pub. Mentally shrugging, he steeled himself to the biting wind outside and lit up, shielding his cigarette from the gales with a practiced hand.

What happened?

He leaned against the building and took a long, deep drag, before exhaling and magicking his smoke into shapes. A ship, a sword, a gun.

"They can take the savage out of the ocean, but they can't take the ocean out of the savage."

It wasn't a particularly eloquent statement, and Arthur figured that was good enough for when he spun around and socked the Frenchman in the jaw. He stumbled back, a look of shock briefly crossing his face before his visage was blocked. Suddenly Arthur had some sort of fabric tossed over his face, and though he scrambled to remove it he was on the ground in less than a second.

He threw off the offending fabric, growling low in his throat, "That was low, even for you."

"I bring your coat out for you and you punch me in the face?" Francis delivered Arthur a strong kick in the chest, before planting it firmly against his sternum. "That's not very nice."

For a moment, Arthur pretended to struggle underneath Francis's very fashionable foot, causing a satisfied smile to appear on the other's face. It dropped immediately, however, when Arthur's legs came up and grabbed Francis by the hips, twisting and forcing him to lose his balance. In a flash it was Arthur standing and Francis on the ground. He quickly backed up a few paces, giving his opponent room.

It was the dance they'd always done, altered now perhaps without guns or boats—but the same nevertheless.

"I don't need a coat if this is what we're going to be doing." He purred the words in the low, sexy way he knew Francis liked, and caught his eyes flicking up and down Arthur's body at the obvious double entendre. For a moment Arthur regretted the suit he still wore – it was quite fitted and sharp on him, but he felt his street clothes would not only be better suited for this activity but would give Francis a bit more to look at.

It was just the barest pause, and Francis was launching himself at Arthur.

"You insufferable—"

"—arrogant and lazy—"

"—a hopeless, drug addicted—"

"—gluttonous fool—"

"—wouldn't know good food if it sank down on your dick—"

"You know you fucking want to—"

"Slut."

Arthur jumped back, sporting a nice shiner and a bleeding lip and gums where his labret smashed into his mouth. Francis was a bit worse for wear, the Brit was pleased to note. That last insult hit close to home, though, and Arthur wasn't eager to reengage after that.

"You know I'm right." Francis murmured darkly, and Arthur had to make a conscious effort not to take a step back. There were few times when Francis wore that expression, something so sinister and dangerous that for a moment Arthur could believe that this man in front of him was one of Rome's descendants. But it wasn't that expression that made Arthur's chest give an uncomfortable squeeze. It was what he knew Francis to be thinking.

"Why are you bringing this up now?" It was practically a whisper, the whipping wind nearly overcoming Arthur's voice.

Francis appeared suddenly very much as a startled rabbit, and Arthur was afraid he knew exactly what the man was about to say. He felt drawn to him, in that moment, and didn't even feel himself stepping forward. He hardly noticed until he was right in front of him, clearly seeing the way his flesh reddened with cold and drink, all too vividly seeing the pale blond eyelashes and the barely perceptible smile lines framing plump, smooth lips. He wondered idly if Francis would be bothered by his own chapped lips.

"I don't know." It was an obvious lie, and it came out in the quietest whoosh of air, Arthur wouldn't have been able to hear it otherwise.

It started misting, then, something that so light though sent a fog up into the air. Francis looked like a pale, golden wraith—something otherworldly—and Arthur felt almost rebuked for thinking of him so sexually. How dare he think himself worthy to touch such an ethereal being?

Arthur was never one to pay mind to such thoughts—at least not in the moment—and reached up ever so slowly, as though Francis might take flight, or perhaps even disappear into the night like a dream, affirming to Arthur that this strange moment had never happened at all.

He shouldn't do this.

His hand cupped Francis's cheek so gently, and he barely had time to wonder how such calloused hands felt against such a soft face before he felt a jolt of electricity run through him. Francis placed a hand over top of Arthur's, and gave him such an expressive look, filled with such sadness it was almost alarming.

Arthur didn't want to give thought to these rather deep emotions, so he kissed him. It was unexpectedly electrifying, and he acted by deepening the kiss almost immediately. Francis issued this soft, surprised little sound, something almost inaudible and nearly drowned out by the wind—and the slightly startling wolf whistle off to the side. Francis broke away to glare and Arthur flipped them off – it was only Alfred.

Wait. Shit.

Arthur risked a glance at Francis, who seemed unconcerned. Rather, his expression was all too warm; simply too welcoming and inviting. Arthur decided after perhaps half a second that he couldn't care less if Alfred knew what was going on (not that Arthur himself knew what was going on), and he instead kissed Francis again, drawing him close. It was a feeling unlike anything he'd experienced, at least not lately, and he shivered – it was like coming home. He never wanted to part from this man, never again. Unfortunately, they did have to breathe with these wretched, human-like bodies, so when they pulled apart they were panting heavily. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, willing to pretend that the wetness he felt on Francis's cheeks, on his lips, was from the heavy mist hanging in the air, as though weighed down by something. Francis's forehead thunked against Arthur's.

"You still taste the same. Alcohol and cigarettes." A pause. "And rain."

Arthur snorted, not willing to speak for fear of antagonizing Francis. Just now, that was perhaps the last thing he wanted to do.

"Would you like to take shelter with me from this horribly inclement weather?"

This time, Arthur did speak. "You're still awful at pickup lines when you're drunk." A small smile crept onto his face.

Francis, instead of rising to the bait, merely detached himself from Arthur and tugged on his hand. "My hotel is this way. You'll come with me." It wasn't a question, and Arthur wasn't going to say no.

Instead, he wound his arm around the Frenchman's waist, leaning heavily into him. He couldn't allow himself to think of what they were doing, what this could mean. He couldn't let the weight in his chest grow bigger. For all he knew this meant nothing, and was simply another of his own drunken forays. How much would he even remember tomorrow?

Francis, oblivious for once to everything around him, laughed as it started to rain harder and pulled Arthur along. He felt his heart seize. He would do anything to be the cause of that laughter, so sincere and light.

"Arthur," he wheezed, "You forgot your coat again!"

Hmm. So he had.

He shoved his hand into Francis's coat pocket. "I think I'll be alright." He leaned in close, and when his lips brushed against Franicis's ear, he was satisfied to feel the man shiver. "Once I'm inside you, I think I'll be quite warm."

Francis halted immediately, pulling Arthur into another kiss, this one much more heated than the others.

"Good." He hissed, before continuing to utterly ravage Arthur's mouth with his tongue. Arthur pushed back, slamming him against some dark, nameless building and Francis moaned into his mouth, clutching desperately wherever he could and settling finally on Arthur's ass.

"You have no ass."

Arthur irritably bit the Frenchman's lip. "I do so have an ass!"

Francis giggled, and the sound was slightly disconcerting to Arthur. Was Francis truly that far gone? "Not that I remember." Was the sly reply, and Arthur gave a tetchy growl into Francis's mouth as he kissed him again.

As the rain continued pelting harder, Arthur remembered that they were supposed to be attempting to escape it. With not inconsiderable difficulty, he pulled away from Francis and took his hand again.

"Come." He insisted, before halting and causing Francis to run into his shoulder. "I don't…" He started giggling himself, a ridiculous sound to his own ears. "I don't know where we're going."

Francis joined in on the laughter himself, and laughed, and laughed and laughed. His mirth was so great that he stumbled; Arthur tried to catch him, but still being quite inebriated himself, they both fell into the damp, cold asphalt. Arthur panted and wheezed, staring up into the black sky. He couldn't see the stars for the streetlights, and suddenly found it inexplicably hilarious that he should have black above him and below him. There was black all around them, swallowing them up, gulping them down into a vast, inescapable, impenetrable darkness. He snorted loudly. How morbid.

It was a good while before they were both able to calm down sufficiently enough to stand, and both almost toppled again when the world swayed violently around Arthur.

"Careful." Francis grabbed him, and rather than catching him, fell back with him against a wall. He still had the sparkle of tears in his eyes from his laughter; that, and the expression of fondness he gave the Brit was… He felt as though Francis kept attacking him, kept punching the air out of him… only, in a good way. He couldn't handle this man. He couldn't do this. He didn't deserve to be looked at like this… Never again.

He cupped Francis's face, his fingers nearly numb from cold, and kissed him deeply, slowly. The Frenchman released a surprised grunt, but to Arthur's satisfaction returned the kiss with fervor. His fingers crept into Francis's sodden hair as he deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue along his lower lip. With a sigh, Francis allowed Arthur's tongue entrance, and pulled him closer, digging his fingers into Arthur's shoulders so hard that he was sure there would be bruises.

"Hotel." Arthur gasped, jerking away from Francis's lips momentarily. "Where is it?"

Francis grabbed his hand and tugged, jerking him just a bit too hard and nearly making him fall again. "This way. Come on."

"Hurry. What time is it?"

"Two."

Arthur laughed, stumbling as quickly as he could behind Francis. "Anything tomorrow?"

Francis shook his head – or, he might have, Arthur wasn't quite sure. Everything was spinning. "No. Most of us are… I think… going home?" Francis's speech was slurred. Arthur was heartened to know the alcohol had hit Francis, as well.

Not that he couldn't drink Francis under the table.

"Here." Francis pointed up to a tall building, and suddenly a curious urge came over him, and he patted his pockets for his wallet. It was gone. And he laughed.

"Shite." He managed through a more obnoxious guffaw.

"What?"

"Nothing." He huffed, this one sound just a bit more sober, more serious than the rest. He would figure it out when he was sober. Speaking of…

"Alcohol?"

"Huh?"

"Ye have it in the room?"

"Yes…" Francis gave him a fleeting, but disdainful glance. "You're not drinking more before we fuck, are you?"

As they arrived in the lobby, Arthur gave it no consideration when the receptionist gave them a sharp look.

The elevator opened, and Arthur shoved Francis into it, pressing him against the wall and kissing him. Moments later, they both realized that they had yet to press the floor button. Arthur let Francis go long enough for that, before reaching around him from behind and sticking his hand directly down his pants. The sudden action elicited a choking sound from Francis, before he pressed back into Arthur's body. He rubbed his ass against the front of Arthur's pants, and if the Brit hadn't been fully hard before, he was now for a certainty. He released a long, slow breath, pressing against Francis's back and licking the shell of his ear, lightly nipping it. His hand worked slowly but surely on the other's cock, drawing it to full attention. He smirked, listening to Francis's panting.

"Arthur…" Francis all but moaned. "The – it's going to open soon… Stop."

Arthur licked a long stripe up Francis's nape before removing himself totally from Francis. For a moment, the Frenchman just stood there, appearing startled and a bit lost at Arthur's immediate reaction. He just wanted to kiss him again, to hurry and bury his dick deep inside him before he lost his nerve, before the reality of the situation hit him too hard.

He knew it was. He wasn't so far gone that all reason had left him. Just far enough that he didn't quite care anymore. That was why he needed the alcohol. He was fucking up yet again. He'd regret this in the morning. He needed more alcohol to make sure that he'd go through with this.

Never mind the fact that he still had deep-seated feelings for Francis… Even after all these years, even after the man left him.

That drink sounded really good right about now.

Luckily, the door to the elevator opened up and deposited them on… some floor, Arthur hadn't been paying attention. They stumbled out, and it wasn't until Francis unlocked the door with his keycard that Arthur realized they were in an extremely nice suite. It was quite lovely, but Arthur was headed straight for the liquor, ripping off clothing along the way. First his suit jacket, then his tie, his belt and his socks. He grabbed cheap vodka out of the refrigerator and chugged it as he unbuttoned the first few buttons of his dress shirt. He was stopped by another pair of hands, though, and when Arthur dragged his lips away from the bottle – vodka wasn't his first choice anyway – he found Francis in front of him, totally naked with a seductive smirk.

"Don't drink it all." He cautioned. "You're not allowed to get whiskey dick when you're about to fuck me."

Arthur grinned, setting the vodka down. He missed, though, and the bottle crashed to the ground, the bottle shattering and the contents splattering all over the floor. Neither man paid it any heed, and the Brit was on Francis with a near frantic groan. The kiss tasted bitter, like blood.

Francis, graceful even in his inebriation, swiftly aided Arthur in his removal of pants and underwear. Rather than moving to the bed, however, Arthur saw Francis being lifted and shoved against a set of drawers as though experiencing it through a fog, as if it wasn't himself doing it.

"Arthur," He panted urgently, "I—You have—lube!"

Arthur cursed a blue streak. But of course, he had plenty of lube on hand for just such an occasion. His pants were just beside him, and it was in the pocket, just in case.

"Here." He squirted some into his hand and pressed back up against Francis, sliding his mouth against the other's. With only slight clumsiness of movement, he grasped both of their cocks and began to pump them together. On some level, he knew that he had to try. This was Francis and he had to try to make him feel good. Because he knew he was wronging Francis yet again, and the Frenchman deserved so much better than a drunk lay.

He would do what he could for the man…

When he looked into Francis's amethyst eyes, they dredged up other feelings within him—feelings of family, of acceptance, of nostalgia and happiness; feelings of cold dread, of terror, of betrayal, of hatred—

—Of drowning.

Arthur stomped those emotions – memories – out, and kissed Francis brutally. His thumb pressed down lightly into Francis's urethra, causing the Frenchman to emit a strangled moan. His other hand dragged through his hair, slowly and gently, a soft caress, to cup the side of his neck. Francis stilled, a barely perceptible stiffen, but it was there. Arthur hardly noticed however, and even if he did he didn't care. It was to be expected. His hand continued its downward journey, to Francis's solid, broad chest, trailing through thick, sandy hair, downward to his firm stomach and finally reaching its goal between Francis's legs. He pulled away slightly to watch Francis's expression better as Arthur's index finger dragged up the other's taint to swirl around his puckered hole. Francis gasped and gave a desperate moan, his mien the picture of anticipation and need. He bucked his hips as well as he could in his position, and Arthur felt his lips twitch upward.

"Not so fast, frog." He slurred. "Hold very still, or ye won't be gettin' anything from me."

"You think I'm content with being belly up at your mercy?" he sneered, whipping himself away with a sharp grin. His voice was rough slurred, but his eyes were deceptively clear as he staggered backward over to the bed, never breaking in their gaze.

"If ye think it matters to me who's on the bottom," Arthur replied, grabbing another bottle of alcohol and stalking forward, "you're mistaken." His movements were smooth and graceful now, compared to before—predatory—but then, he had experience doing much while intoxicated. He'd spent most of his life drunk.

"Ah?" Francis took another step back, eyeing the alcohol in Arthur's hand with a growing expression of disgust.

"Aye, I like fucking you, though. Do you know why?" He took a deep swig of the drink, not even feeling it as it slid down his throat. His eyes bore through Francis's like acid. "I like taking you apart. I like it when I'm the one making you scream."

It was barely a whisper, but Francis heard, and Arthur barely dodged a swift and well-aimed uppercut. They both knew when it came right down to it, Arthur would win in a fight every time. He had always been faster, and now he was stronger (though these days his strength might be debatable). But old habits were hard to break. And some, like this one, were comforting. It meant some things hadn't changed.

"Stop being so bitchy and just let me fuck you!" Arthur finally growled after getting cuffed rather roughly in the back of the head. He almost regretted his words when Francis froze, and flashed what he thought was an expression of hurt. But it was probably just his imagination. Or the alcohol. Or both.

He dragged Francis roughly by the hair to the head of the bed, and though he had tears in his eyes he was panting and rutting with his cock against the sheets as soon as Arthur let go.

"Slut." Arthur soothingly combed a hand over his scalp. He inhaled the musky scent of the Frenchman, the same scent after all these years, and ground his hips into Francis's ass. The moan turned into a yelp when Arthur bit into his shoulder.

Francis loved pain. He felt it was a great perversion, not a sin but something like it, something that took away from the essence of the purity of sex, how it was "supposed" to be. Arthur said bollocks to that and took great joy in riling Francis up in this manner.

The Brit sat up on his knees and began his ponderous project of opening Francis up. Even with lube it was still difficult, and Francis offered a similar opinion with his grunts of discomfort as he worked him open. Arthur tried to be patient, he really did.

Francis wasn't a slut. Not really. Not like people thought he was. So this was difficult; he was so tight. Arthur relished the idea that Francis hadn't had anyone back here for a good while. It was a nicer lie though, to tell himself that there had been no one since him, all those years ago.

After the third finger, Francis finally swatted back at him and scolded him for taking too long.

"Francis." Arthur's voice was metal grinding against metal, and Francis turned to regard him slowly, his effort in remaining steady showing quite obviously. "I would see your face."

The Frenchman gave a wry smile; there was something almost painful about it. "It's unlike you to pretend to be romantic."

Arthur wasn't entirely sure what he was trying to say. There was nothing Arthur wanted more than to see Francis's beautiful expressions as he fucked him. Everything about him was too good, too perfect, his body and his eyes and voice and face – and Arthur wanted to watch as he was sundered beneath him.

Arthur threw one of Francis's legs over his shoulders and began a steady entrance, neither slow nor gentle, but sure. He caught a groan of pain on Francis's lips with a kiss.

"Spare me your gentleness, you bastard." He hissed, forcing a look that was more a sneer than grin. "Get to the good part, already."

Arthur responded with a harsh bite, the lip swelling almost immediately. "Don't tell me what to do." Arthur did, however, do as he was told, and Francis grunted a laugh even as he closed his eyes in pain, feeling the Brit's cock slide out of him.

Arthur snapped his hips, slamming himself back inside.

"Fuck!" Arthur wasn't sure who said it.

The rest of the night was a blur. By the time they were both finished, Arthur had the sense to thank the gods he had brought them both to orgasm, and hadn't thrown up on either of them. But he must have puked at some point, because he found vomit smeared on his arm when he woke up in the wee hours of the morning. From his positioning on the floor where he sort of faced the balcony… he'd probably thrown up over the balcony. Or something. Not that it mattered. He stumbled around in the black of the room, picking up his clothes. He left as quickly and quietly as he possibly could.

You're staring down the mangy crew of the Spaniard when it happens. A loud crash echoes from the captain's quarters. You don't dare move, but you definitely tense up. You are under strict orders not to enter under any circumstances… but the Spanish dog is in there with your captain and you do not trust Carriedo as far as you can throw his ship.

Hours pass, and the moon rises onto the sea. Another ship has moored portside next to Arthur's, and you don't like it. None of you do, you can tell; none of you like being penned in. These two have worked together before to Arthur's ire, and you don't doubt they'd do the same now, even at a moment's notice.

The Frenchman, Captain Bonnefoy, ever your captain's bane (but something of a fascination, if you've been reading into it correctly) boards the ship like he owns it. He and two of his men are the only ones. This is no threat, so no one moves. Only you, in your captain's stead, come forward.

"I'd ask ye to leave; 'tis bad luck to have women and their dainty hair aboard a ship." You call, "But I'd be bettin' the cap'n'd be takin' exception to my kickin' ye off. So what do ye want, frog?" You assume there must be a reason for his seeking the ship out. After all, he's like Carriedo and your captain – different.

"I must see your captain. It is an important matter." And judging by the curt tone and grave expression, it really must be.

You knock on the door to the captain's quarters and you hear a loud thud, like something or someone falling, then a muffled curse.

"Thought I damn well told ye teh leave well alone!" Came Arthur's coarse rebuff through the door.

"Yessir, ye did, but see, there's a bit of a situation –"

The door swings open. Arthur is stark naked and furious. Behind him, his quarters are a mess, and Carriedo is lounging equally nude against the headboard. At first, all your captain can see is you, but then he sees Bonnefoy behind you, and he goes from furious to terrified in the blink of an eye. For once, you think, he looks like a sixteen-year-old boy. His expression tells you that he may have just made the worst mistake of his life.

You hear the Frenchie's quick, sure steps behind you and you're shoved aside so that he's got a clear shot of your captain's face. He punches so hard that Arthur's head is slammed into the doorframe. Without missing a beat, he glances over at the Spaniard, his face an unreadable mask.

"Have you even brought it up, yet?"

"Uh… We've been busy." Carriedo has the grace to appear abashed, but he can't manage to work up a blush, and doesn't bother to hide the evidence of their coupling.

Bonnefoy gives a brisk nod at that, and spins around on his heel. He continues speaking as he heads back to his ship. "Arthur, you're expected in the war room of Versailles in two months' time." His tone is all business, betraying nothing. "We're to discuss certain things with our Prussian neighbor, and Gilbert will want to hear about how it was fighting alongside Roderich and Ms. Hedervary. We know you've already compiled plenty of information, but anymore you can give, personal, or otherwise, would be appreciated."

Arthur stares after him, stock still and in spite of everything remaining utterly naked. Carriedo rapidly darts out past him, yanking his pants up.

"Oye, Francis, wait! I didn't realize you two were –"

Captain Bonnefoy rounds on him, a wild and murderous look in his eyes. "Maybe not, but Art – he should have controlled himself. I blame myself for trusting a man like him, he'll fuck anything that walks on two legs, and some things that don't." He makes a face. "Tell you what. I'll race you back to mainland Europe. If you get back first, Lovino can keep his head."

This throws Carriedo into a wild panic. You know through experience, that there are few ways to throw men like this off balance. But frightening Carriedo into submission is easy when you threaten Lovino – and intend to follow through.

As Bonnefoy coolly boards his own ship, Carriedo throws his clothes on and frantically does the same. All the while, Arthur just stands there, staring at nothing. You continue on with your own work, and minding your own business… Or you pretend to. But your captain is more than your captain by now. You've been with this man for years, and feel close to him somehow. And you've never seen him like this.